Boromir's Lament
by Wen Quendalie
Summary: A brief story on what goes through Boromir's mind as he is faced with his own mortality.


Author's Note: I do not now nor ever will own any rights to any of the works belonging to the Master himself, J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely for entertainment purposes only.

I stared into the face of the monster that stood before me, leering at me with the face only certain victory assuades. Breathless and weary from the battle, the wounds that seared my body tormented me, allowing the life within me to trickle to the ground. Was it three arrows, or three hundred? It mattered not, for as I knelt upon the ground, my sword useless beside me, I knew that my destiny had reached its end.

Breath was fleeting, a burden to my body as I struggled to remain where I was. The battle was over. I watched as the orcs passed me by, taking the little ones to almost certain doom, and I was consigned to my failure. My weakness had left them vulnerable, and now they would most certainly face torment in the face of my defeat. Could such creatures feel delight or satisfaction at such a victory? Did they realize that with each step they only extended my pain and, perhaps, self-loathing? How I longed to leap to my feet and continue the battle, to steal that delight from them and bring them to the ground! The little ones could surely not defend themselves against such monstrosities on their own! What would become of them now? Could Aragorn defeat them? Would the heir of Isildur achieve what I could not?

My thoughts strayed to Gondor, and to my father, and to my brother. How my father would be disappointed. How could I possibly hope to bring hope back to our people when I failed at protecting two small hobbits? Would he look upon me with understanding and compassion as a father looking upon his son who had given all his strength to this task? Or would he look upon me as a ruler looks upon a disobedient subject, a mere soldier who could not accomplish a menial order given by his superior? My father… he had charged me with a mighty weight that at times I thought my shoulders might buckle. But I had sworn to him that I would bring peace and hope to our people, that our struggle would not be for naught. Each day of my life had been dedicated to ensuring the survival of our people, day after day after day of insurmountable obstacle until surely doom would pass over from Mordor into our lands and swarm us in an unstoppable tide.

Now the burden fell to Faramir. I could only hope that my brother would be up to the inscrutable gaze of our father, the demands that he placed upon us as his sons. Surely, Faramir had never been handed such burdens. Father had made certain that it was I who led the charges, called the men to arms, and fought in the face of the horrors that had been growing steadily over time. Dear Faramir… I wish the blessings of the gods upon you, dear brother. For surely in these dark times you will need all that, and more.

Our lands were besieged, and now the darkness of Mordor and of Isengard was preparing to engulf us completely. Our only hope lay with Frodo, carrying the Bane of Isildur into the Dark Land itself. I had doubted him, doubted his intentions and his strength. But in my mind's eye, it was made clear now, never before. The young hobbit did indeed possess a strength that I myself could never have. He carried an evil with him, and, should he continue on his journey, would for many, many more days and nights.

Could I have done any better? Could I stand in the face of that evil and not be swayed? Deep shame filled my heart as I realized that I could not. Should not. In the short time we had traveled together, I had thought only of possessing the ring and its power. The faceless whispers that haunted my dreams and even my waking thoughts had spoken all of my fears, given form to my deepest dreams and longings. I had believed that _I_ could carry this ring, that _I_ could defeat the Dark Lord if given the chance, and all of Middle-earth would once again be free from the threat of oppression and despair.

I was a bigger fool than I could have imagined.

The ring. Such a small trifle, yet it caused pain and decimated happiness, friendship and loyalty wherever it was found. How could it be in my lifetime? I did not think I would live to see the day when the ring was found, when it came into form and within my grasp. Curses upon it! I cursed the foul Lord who wrought destruction upon all, and I prayed for his downfall.

The face looking back at me was fierce some, a loathsome beast by the foul arts of Saruman. It curled back its lips over black teeth, and studied me. Perhaps it was aware of the thoughts coursing through my weary mind. Perhaps it was deciding how long to wait until it picked the flesh from my bones.

At last it pulled back its bow and notched an arrow, preparing to fire. I stared, unblinking at the arrow, awaiting its arrival. My death was certain. There would be no chance for me, but I hoped that the Fellowship still had a chance at survival. Let the Quest be fulfilled and let the Dark Lord be brought to ruin, as he had destroyed my lands and all those of Middle-earth. This beast might extinguish my life, but it could not extinguish the hope that still lived in the hearts of my companions, nor those that still drew breath and lived and dreamed of peace.

Taking a shuddering breath, I prepared to move into the next world, to come face to face with my ancestors, and to walk through the immortal halls of my fathers' fathers. There would be peace there. Perhaps they would forgive me for my failures and allow me to rest at last. The line of Stewards was to come to an end soon. Even with my last breath, I knew that the line of Kings would resume their place. Even this monster would fall to the might of the King.

I closed my eyes, and consigned myself to the reigning dark.


End file.
